


Morning Glory

by FicFanFun



Category: Hogan's Heroes (TV 1965)
Genre: Erections, Gen, M/M, Masturbation, Morning Wood, Wake-Up Sex, Wanking Comment Fest, hard-ons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:27:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23498266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FicFanFun/pseuds/FicFanFun
Summary: Everyone wakes up with one. The question is, what are they going to do about it? A series of snippets about the boys of Barracks 2 finding a satisfying way to start the day.
Comments: 19
Kudos: 21





	1. Newkirk

Early morning. The barracks room was quiet except for the soft sound of snoring all around him. Peter woke slowly for a change, the sunlight streaming through a crack in the ceiling gently coaxing him. Get up. Get up.

Up.

As he woke he could feel it there, warm and full. His morning glory. Slumber lumber. Breakfast dagger. Morning wood. There was no better feeling. Well, there was one and if he was lucky...

He lifted his head to check his surroundings. The others were definitely asleep — all 13 of them. No stirrings from the Colonel’s office either. Peter laid there for a moment, just enjoying the feeling of being erect. He felt big. He felt strong. He felt manly.

Under the thin blanket, under his nightshirt, inside his raggedy shorts, Peter’s hard-on was straining for release. He let it struggle. It felt so good to be hard. 

He was breathing a little faster as he concentrated on the sensation. Stay up. Stay up. Don’t waste it. He thought about Helga. He thought about Tiger. Yes, that was helping.

It was a game he had with himself. How long could he keep it up without even touching it? Not that he didn’t want to touch it. He wanted to.

But against his belly, it was firm and tingling. He put two fingers to his mouth and sucked the tips, running his tongue over them slowly. As if his fingertips were a different tip. His. As if a tongue was caressing him. Right. There. He sucked for a moment, just thinking. Whose tongue? He smiled. He could think of a few choices. He wondered if Louis was up.

Then he withdrew the fingers from his mouth, turned over on his belly, felt his stiffness underneath him, and rocked ever so slightly. Just enough to feel it. Not enough to wake up Andrew. He pulled his hips back, feeling the warmth deep in his groin, and thrust. Again and again, he thrust into his pitiful excuse for a mattress. His toes were curling.

He’d come this way before, of course, hands free. But he preferred a little pressure. So he rolled again, his back to the room, facing his wall, and cupped his hands under his balls.

There was a picture of a girl, cut from a magazine. A blonde beauty with a sweet round face. He took himself in hand as he studied the photo. Dressed in pink. Smiling coyly. About 18. Very nice indeed. Under that dress with the trim white collar, her breasts were pert. Her smile was inviting. Her lips were parted and very, very full and pink. 

He imagined her there beneath him. His hand on a nipple, stroking. Watching her shimmy her dress over her hips. Feeling her soft knickers. Finding a damp spot. Reaching inside. Wet. Moist. Slippery. He imagined gliding inside, being enveloped by her warmth. Wet. Moist. Slippery. “You are so big and hard,” she would whisper in her sweet, posh voice.

He was pumping rhythmically now as he stared at her photo. His hand quickened. He was very good at this. He felt himself pushing, kissing, gasping, squirming. 

Faster. Faster. Faster. Oh yes. Oh yes. Oh god yes. Oh god. 

His hand was filled with hot sticky cum. He extracted a crusty handkerchief from the bunk frame, cleaned himself up, and flopped on his back to recover.

Then he heard the door from Hogan’s office creak open.

”Good morning, gentlemen,” Hogan announced. All around the room, men groaned, turned over, grimaced. 

Hogan was by Andrew and Peter’s bedside now. His two youngest charges always got a little extra greeting.

”Come on, boys, up,” he said, playfully grabbing Carter’s stockinged feet, which were sticking out from the blanket. He rose up, caught Peter’s gaze, and smiled. 

“Rise and shine, morning glory,” Hogan said warmly. He laid a hand on Peter’s chest. “Up and at ‘em.”

”Yes, Sir,” Peter said back with his cutest smile. “I’ve been up for a while.”

Hogan saw the flush on his cheeks, snickered and leaned in to whisper. “I’ll bet you have,” he said with a wink.


	2. Carter

"Oh, man. Not again." Carter could feel himself blushing as he came out of a sound night's sleep. He was stiff, but that wasn't the problem. The problem was his thighs and balls were sticky from when he shot in the middle of the night. He could feel that the white goop was still wet, and he felt annoyed with himself. 

He was pretty sure no one else was having frequent wet dreams. Not like he was, anyway. Not once a week. Probably not even once a month, the rest of those guys.

Carter wasn't the youngest guy in the barracks, but when it came to sex, he sure felt like he was. The guys all talked dirty, played with themselves, and joked about wet dreams like they were something that only happened when they were kids. 

Newkirk had opinions about it the last time it happened. He had noticed the state of Carter's underwear as they stripped down for a morning shower. Unloading in your drawers sure made a mess, and if anyone recognized that kind of mess, it was Newkirk.

“Wet dream, eh? A good wank before you sleep will take care of that,” he had confided. ”Anyway, why would you let yourself sleep through the best thing that can happen to a bloke?" Newkirk was kind of laughing, kind of leering, and kind of dead serious. He was also lathering up with a purpose. Newkirk sure liked to wank, as he called it.

And he was sure casual about it. Everyone knew that if Newkirk's hands weren't on a deck of cards, a pack of cigarettes, or in someone else's pockets, the chances were pretty good that they were on his wiener. He didn't even care much if anyone saw him. And whether he cared or not, absolutely everyone heard him when he got done playing with himself.

Carter wasn't like that. He was raised to control himself. Oh, sure, every once in a while he got to the point where had to jack off, like any other guy, but that was once or twice a month, tops. It wasn't all day, every day like some people he could mention. There probably wasn't enough goop left in Newkirk for a wet dream, Carter thought with a laugh. Then he thought, why assume? His dad always told him assumptions make an ASS of U and ME. That was some dirty guy talk!

”Do you get them, Newkirk?” He leaned in and softly clarified his question in case “them” was unclear: “Wet dreams?”

“Carter! That’s rather a personal question, isn’t it?” Newkirk said with outrage in his voice as he rubbed one out right there in plain view. “Hold off a minute, mate. Ohh. Ohhhh! Oh my God. Ohhh, ahhhhh. Ahhhh.” He squirted all over his belly, then slowed his pace, caressing his balls for a minute. “Oh yes, that was a good one,” he whispered. Then he rinsed off the results of his exertions and caught Carter’s puppy dog look.

”Yes, Carter,” he whispered. “I still get them now and then. Two nights ago, in fact. It just shows that you can’t keep a good man down.”

Maybe Newkirk was on to something, Carter thought as he laid on his bunk staring up at the mattress above him and feeling the warm throb of his erection. The bunk was heaving ever so slightly as Newkirk gently snored. Carter looked down at the bulge under his blanket. Maybe if he took matters into his own hand a little more often. But no, it was wrong to plan to do that. It was weak. The erection would go away.

It thrummed like it had its own heartbeat.

Well, maybe just this one time, Carter figured.

He gripped himself loosely and stroked up and down. It sure felt nice. It reminded him of all the times he and Mary Jane fooled around and it ended with him getting hard. A couple times she held him like this, but not real tight, sort of like she thought she might break it. He thought of her small, soft hand, so cool as it wrapped around him. He thought of her hair shining in the moonlight. He remembered kissing her softly on the lips as his cheeks grew hot. He remembered thinking they should stop this right now before her Mama walked out to the yard and noticed them acting all funny on the swing. 

And he remembered stopping. Zipping himself back up with a shy smile to Mary Jane and a hand on her breast. "We should wait," he recalled saying. "We'll be engaged soon." It was so danged awkward when they realized where necking and petting could lead. 

Mary Jane looked as relieved as he felt. "Was I doing it OK, Andy?" she had asked.

"That was great, Mary Jane," Carter had replied. "I can hardly wait until we're married."

This time, here in the still-dark barracks, he didn't have to stop. He thought, what if? What if Mary Jane wasn't so shy? What I felt more ready? What if her Mama would stay in the gosh-darn house and not bother us? He thought, it's just like Newkirk says. I'm hard as a rock, and I shouldn't let that go to waste.

Her hair, her breast, her lips, her mouth, her smile, her hand. Her small, soft, cool hand going very, very fast. He came with shudders and moans loud enough to wake the dead.

But the room was quiet. Good. That was good, because this was sure embarrassing. Andrew Carter was not raised this way, even if Mary Jane did have a way of making him tingle

He was evening out his breaths and enjoying his solitude when he heard a soft laugh.

"Good on you, Andrew," said the voice from up above him. "You definitely didn't sleep through that one."

Carter smiled. "Nope. No point wasting a perfectly good erection," he said. 


	3. Hogan

There was a time when it was like this every morning, Hogan thinks as he lolls in bed. Warmth radiating from the core of his being. Hard, firm, straight up warmth. The erections are no longer constant, but they are strong. When he wakes up aroused, he wants to linger. Sometimes he can.

He runs his fingers loosely over his hard-on. His alarm will be going off in 12 minutes. He’ll have to beat fast to beat the clock. He caresses and strokes and pulls and thinks of Hilda and Helga and Tiger, but it’s taking too long.

So he lets loose the thoughts from the gray shadows of his mind, the ones he tries to push away. It is only a little story he tells himself to relax, he says. It is unimportant.

Peter is in front of him, naked, trembling. Not here. Somewhere plush, private. An elegant hotel or home. Hogan is naked too, and he is very hard.

Hogan wraps his hands around the younger man’s waist, helps him lean back. He sees his eyes are half-closed. He whispers in his ear.

“Let me.”

“I’m not ready,” Peter whimpers. He is willing, but he is scared

“I’ll make you ready.” He’s standing right behind him, and the urge to push is overpowering, but Hogan is strong. He is in control. He can wait.

“Relax,” Hogan whispers as he trails kisses down Peter’s neck. He doesn’t have to rush matters because he can make him want this. His fingers stroke the inside of Peter’s thigh. Peter is still afraid, but he is slowly rising, responding to Hogan’s irresistible touch. Peter exhales as Hogan’s skillful fingers latch on, teasing him higher.

Electricity surges as Hogan feels Peter's cock in his hand and caresses his balls.

From behind, Hogan is grinding gently, finding a soft cave between Peter’s cheeks where he can just rest. He holds Peter, strokes him, kisses him. Then he inserts his fingers into Peter's mouth so he can suck on them and urges Peter forward toward an elegant antique writing desk. They move as one, with Hogan still nestled inside his cheeks. “Bend,” he says, his fingers dripping as he withdraws them from Peter's mouth.

Peter obeys, and Hogan probes with his wet fingers to prepare the entrance. The Colonel is hard, very hard, and he can feel himself starting to leak some spunk. He pulls back from Peter’s bum and massages the tip of his own cock, moaning with pleasure. He reaches across the desk where Peter is leaning and takes a small pot of Vaseline. He dab his fingers in, then strokes himself. He massages Peter's entrance, stroking his balls from underneath.

“Ready?” Hogan asks.

Peter gasps as Hogan lightly squeezes his balls, and nods anxiously. "Yes," he said, sounding hesitant.

“Shhhh,” Hogan says gently. He recognizes the fear, and it excites him. “Bend just a little more. Good boy.” With a thrust and a push and another thrust, he buries himself deep in Peter’s body.

He licks Peter’s neck and ear as he drives himself in. His right hand slides off Peter’s waist and grips the Corporal's erection. He feels Peter shaking, though whether from fear or excitement he cannot tell. He doesn’t wonder; he simply strokes Peter's cock and feels his power over the younger man. He spits in his hand and pumps faster. Peter is very hard and he is moaning, so he must like this.

Hogan’s confirmation comes when a warm, white splash fills his right hand and Peter’s knees go weak. Oh yes, he liked it and wants more. Hogan is sure of it. Hogan hauls him upright with a strong arm and knows he must thrust faster now. And he does, rocking hard into Peter’s ass until he can feel himself explode with pleasure, squirting his juices into the depths of Peter’s waiting body. He lingers until he is soft, then smiles as he pulls out. Peter is sobbing quietly, whether with relief or joy, Hogan cannot tell. He does not ask. He lays him on the soft, plush bed and strokes his chest and belly as he mewls.

"You liked it," Hogan says. It’s not a question. It’s an order.

"You're so big, Sir," Peter chokes out. "Fill me up again."

Hogan opens his eyes and lets his cock slip from his hand like a noodle. He lays back on his bed, breathless and embarrassed. But only for a moment.

He is a man, he reminds himself. Every inch a man. Fantasies mean nothing. Tonight, he decides, he will take Hilda into Klink’s staff car right in the middle of the camp compound for a rendezvous, just to remind himself and everyone else that he's a man who gets what he wants. And what he wants is women. 

And as he fucks Hilda senseless, he will hardly think of Peter at all.


	4. LeBeau

Monique. Yvette. Désirée.

Ahh. Mais, oui.

LeBeau awakes mid-dream and smiles. He’s still got it.

In his dreams he is a strong and satisfying lover. Of course, a dream is nothing compared to what he is in real life, given half a chance.

But half a chance, unfortunately, is a dream. He hasn’t touched a woman in months. What memories and fantasies cannot do, his right hand must. And his zob is clearly ready.

So he wraps it firmly and strokes. It is early and the barracks is so quiet. No one will know.

No one can know. He doesn’t want it to be known that he still masturbates. He is a man; he has had lovers and been married and divorced. He has played the field. He is not lacking in experience. No, but opportunities are another matter. So he resorts to childish behavior.

Having a partner is better. Pierre, he thinks with a fond smile. They have been together a few times. They have come together, he nearly said, and that would be true too. He snickers. Pierre is randy, to use his English word. Always ready. And terribly loud. LeBeau feels his zob stiffen further; the image of Pierre coming is très amusant et très excitant.

Together is better. Perhaps an opportunity will arise... arise, he says! ...later today and the two of them can slip off to assist one another. They fit snugly together.

Meanwhile, _J’ai la gaule,_ he reminds himself. Don’t neglect it. He gives it a long, appreciative stroke. His length is impressive and he knows it.

It’s early and the barracks is so quiet. No one will know.

### Actions


	5. Newkirk

He woke face down, keenly aware that a certain part of him was digging into the loose bag of straw that passed for his mattress. He was hard again. And noticeably wet.

Newkirk groaned as he his hand reached down to examine his crotch. All right, OK. It was only a wet dream. It could have been worse.

Hadn’t he and Carter just talked about this? Yes, he had admitted, he still got them too, but two in a week was a surprise. They always left him feeling a bit shortchanged, as if he’d fallen asleep at the pictures and had come to after the main feature had ended. Apparently he’d enjoyed himself, but it would be nice to remember. There were some things a lad really mustn’t sleep through.

He didn’t usually have a boner after a wet dream, either. Well, thank the good lord for small favors, he thought as he scooted onto his side to lazily stroke himself. Mmm, it felt good. His belief in a deity was a bit shaky, but he thought that if there was a God, He’d done quite well with this design. It wasn’t much to look at, but it felt awfully good. And the getting off bit was a fine piece of work. Well played, Sir. There might be some benevolence woven into life’s rich pattern after all.

The room was starting to come alive. Oh hell. He’d just have to work faster. He was not the only one. Across the room, he’d just heard LeBeau erupt. He smiled. He’d know those moans anywhere. He was pretty sure that was Garlotti whose sighs he was hearing, too.

Then the door flew open and a gust of cold air blasted him. He nearly lost his grip, but he wasn’t going to let that happen. No. As Schultz thumped on the bed post and shouted “Raus,” Newkirk beat harder. Schultz had ordered him to get up, after all. He was approaching the edge, panting and moaning. 

“Newkirk!” Schultz was shouting his disapproval. Not gonna stop, Newkirk decided. No turning back now. He paused only long enough to generously wet his palm with spit, then concentrated on his tip. He imagined a certain someone helping him now, someone whose warm hand would make him blush if it lingered a bit too long on his back or arm. A moment later he arrived at his destination, groaning as he shot his load into his waiting hand while imagining a certain Yank with smiling brown eyes coaxing him on.

 _My God_ , he thought. _Why must I be so fucking loud?_

He collapsed to silence, which was then broken by slow applause. First one pair of hands, then a second, then several more. Schultz looked horrified, until he finally smiled and joined in. It had been an impressive performance. Newkirk rolled over and grinned at his public, tucked himself in, sat up, and bowed from the waist.

”That, my friends, is how you start the day with a bang,” Newkirk said.


	6. Kinch

He wakes up wanting it. And there’s evidence to support it.

He sighs. This isn’t like him, but he’s not one to ignore proof.

He deals in facts, not emotions. He makes lists and checks through them. Transmissions come through, communicating information and orders. There is a time and a place for each assignment. 

This one is not on the schedule.

He rests a hand there, strokes confidently, because of course he’s experienced. Of course he’s done this, and more. Actually, he left this behind for the real thing years ago. Even in England, he’d had a lovely and faithful young lady, her fair skin and wavy hair so exotic to him. The British, it turned out, are surprisingly open-minded about some things. In America, he could find himself on the end of a rope for looking at a white woman.

But even though there are no women around, he can’t. The other guys do, but he can’t. Not here. Other guys can afford to be noticed. Can afford the momentary loss of control. Can afford to give others ammunition.

Not James Kinchcloe. He has to be stronger and better and more resilient than any white man. That’s just how it is.

He unhands himself.

Maybe later. Down below. When he’s alone.

He’s ready. He wants it. But he can’t have everything he wants.


	7. Hogan

He can’t get away from Marya quickly enough. He leaves her in Klink’s office, with her latest General and her thick, fluffy mink and her whiff of perfume and her incomprehensible, absolutely crazy scheme. He can still feel her fingers, with those long, horrible nails, caressing his neck as he storms across the compound.

His men read his face as he barrels into Barracks 2, and everyone knows it’s not the moment to ask a question, even one as ordinary as “How did it go, Sir?” Even LeBeau won’t ask that, and he’s besotted with the White Russian.

No, this is a good time to leave the Colonel alone, everyone sees. It’s obvious as he enters the barracks, lets out an exasperated breath of air, and yanks his door shut firmly behind him.

He sits down heavily on his bunk. God, he hates this. He hates losing his composure, but she does it every time. It’s the worst part of his job, having to pretend. He can’t stand how she paws him and hangs off him. He’s not wild about it with any woman, but especially her. But dammit, he’s a man. There are places where he reacts if you touch him, and she kept pressing up against him. She noticed, she wants him, and she’s going to have to get him before this little adventure ends.

The nails disgust him even more than the thought of pushing his way inside her to do his duty. They always have. He will never understand why women insist on wearing talons. A woman’s small, cool hand will always feel fine wrapped around him, provided she knows what she’s doing. It will do, even if he’d prefer a bigger, broader hand. But the nails disturb him. He likes them short and tidy.

He lies back and knows he needs to shake the intensity he is feeling. He knows what to do. It always works. He sits up; did he slide the latch on his door when he came in? Yes, he sighs. Alright then.

He unzips himself, takes himself in hand, and clears his mind. A few strokes, and he’s got something to work with. He reaches into the frame on the wall side of the bed and fishes up a small bottle of lotion. It will help things along. He thinks of Helga’s hand, of Hilda’s hand, and he pumps his way toward his goal. He feels heat rising in his cheeks, imagines a fraulein’s soft lips on his neck, and groans softly. But it isn’t enough, and he knows it. Lately it’s never enough.

He wants to feel the touch of someone as strong as he is. To feel his lips and tongue glide over him, knowing his loved one craves him as much as he does them. His slick hand speeds up at the thought of exactly what... exactly who... he wants.

”Peter,” he whispers as his loins burn with need, as his own caresses bring him to the brink of ecstasy. “Peter,” he repeats softly as he feels the intensity gather and concentrate his mind on pleasure. “Peter,” he cries out as he tips over the edge, splashing his hand with his warm, wet, sticky goo. It’s a big load, and he feels a surge of pride at that.

He is sweating and panting and stretching his cum between his fingers when a knock comes at the door. “Sir? Did you call my name?” 

In that moment, Hogan makes a command decision. He sits up and zips up. “Yes, Newkirk, give me a second.” He wipes his hand on a handkerchief and stands to tuck in his shirt. 

He is pulled back together as he opens the door to admit the man who constantly invades his fantasies. There is nothing he can say, nothing he can acknowledge. Nothing that will really help.

But he pulls him in anyway, and noticed his hands as he does so. They are broad hands, well groomed. Soft, yet strong and manly.

”I need to get my mind off Marya,” Hogan says. “ Do you play chess?”

”Me, Sir? No, but let me get Kinch.” Newkirk is part way out the door when Hogan grabs him by the shoulder and tugs him back inside.

”No, you and me,” Hogan says. “I’ll teach you.”


End file.
